Summary

"Um, Marina," Brown-Eyes said. He sounded so polite. It was endearing. "Can you tell us who the hell we are? Give us something to go off of here? None of us are carrying ID or anything."

Marina gave a dramatic, heaving sigh, looking up to the ceiling as if asking for strength. "Okay, this is gonna be low-key humiliating for me, because I mostly pretend I don't care enough about you chuckle-fucks to remember your names, but, I can see how the situation might get confusing if we let you all go around without knowing. So."------------------------------------A man wakes up in a warehouse with six strangers, and no idea who he is. He takes one look at the floppy-haired, brown-eyed man next to him, and falls in love.

Summary

"And since we're never going to see each other again, I'd appreciate it if you'd stop making me feel like shit, for once. Think of it as a going away present."

This stupid and immature outburst doesn't rile Eliot up, the way Quentin was maybe kind of hoping it would. Instead, his incredulous anger falls away instantly, leaving genuine bewilderment and a little bit of hurt in its wake.

"I'm - not trying to make you feel like shit," Eliot says slowly. "Why would you say that?"

Quentin scoffs, turning away from Eliot so he doesn't have to meet his eyes. "I get that you were miserable there, but I wasn't," he admits finally, furious at the burning in his own eyes. "And every time you say something about it, about how awful the whole thing was, it makes me feel - I mean, can't you hear the way it sounds, from my perspective?"

He turns around to see Eliot staring at him with his eyebrows scrunched up. "Complaining about the mosaic was like - our favorite pastime when we were trapped there," he says. "It's revisionist history to pretend we both had a jolly good time with that fucking puzzle."

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Summary

Everything had been going so well.

Suspiciously perfect, in fact.

In Quentin's experience, that kind of luck didn't last. And wouldn't it just be the irony of ironies, the cherry on top of the Trauma Sundae of his life with Eliot, if some catastrophe came swooping along at the eleventh hour and cursed their happiness away?

Tags

Summary

Eliot had returned to the bedroom, immaculately dressed in fine Fillorian garb, before Q had even finished getting dressed. Which meant that Q was actually shirtless, hair still rumpled from sleep, and at his most vulnerable, when Eliot gave him a strange look, his fingers fiddling with the buttons on his vest, and said -

"Quentin. I really don't know how to say this, so I'm just going to say it." And then he'd swallowed, clenched his jaw once, and stilled the motion of his hands. He leveled Q with an even, piercing stare, and said: "We need to break up."

[...]

Quentin blinked, the reality of the moment slamming into him. Suddenly, he wasn't heartbroken or devastated or betrayed, just... fucking panicked. Because if Eliot was breaking up with him, something was wrong with Eliot.